


take what you want

by shepherd



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Banter, F/F, Femslash, Flirting, Sparring, Teasing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21889630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shepherd/pseuds/shepherd
Summary: It was just the two of them now. All alone in one of the Citadel’s finest rooms and it was harder not to grab Aranea by her shirt and kiss her stupid when the Oracle, mouthpiece of the gods herself wasn’t crammed between them on a borrowed truck, trying innocently to make small talk with her new companions.
Relationships: Crowe Altius/Aranea Highwind
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15
Collections: FFXV Holiday Gift Exchange 2019





	take what you want

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xylianna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xylianna/gifts).



> i apologise so profusely, i've never written NSFW femslash, crowe or in depth aranea before so i really hope this is acceptable! i hope you do enjoy it still, and that you have a very lovely and festive time! :D

Twenty, and Crowe exhaled harshly and settled down on her rear. Spreading her legs and closing her eyes she stretched out for another long twenty seconds, the familiarity settling into her body. It was a welcome strain. It had been a while – in every sense, and Crowe would not cause herself unnecessary pains by rushing in her eagerness to impress.

It was ridiculous. She didn’t need to impress anyone – least of all _her_. But still she sank into a bow. Stretching her arms, she breathed – in, then out and twenty more heartbeats. Basking in the well earned quiet she permitted herself the pleasure of peace of mind and taut muscle.

It never lasted long.

“I’m not getting any younger,” Aranea drawled and Crowe could hear her smile.

She always wore that damn smile.

Crowe remained bowed. Only when she was ready did she straighten up and she found Aranea watching and laughing to herself. That smile was wry this time and she pulled the ties wrapped carefully around her knuckles tighter. Her poise was casual, in a way that pissed Crowe off.

There was an awful lot about her that rubbed Crowe up the wrong way. In the simplest depiction Crowe knew it was all because she wasn’t rubbing her up all the right ways, wasn’t stripped down in the shower, but Crowe bit it all back. She had done so well the past few weeks. It would be ruinous to fall at the final hurdle.

“You about done?”

“Yeah,” Crowe replied as coolly as she could – _not like you’ve got places to be anyway_ , inviting herself along on Crowe’s intended private time – and got to her feet. The training room was empty past the two of them, the clock ticking high up on the wall and only the eyes of past heroes within the portraits watching.

Aranea clapped her hands together. It echoed loudly. “It’s a sweet layout you got here,” she crooned and somehow even that sounded teasing. “Hope Insomnia’ finest doesn’t disappoint.”

There was a buzzing inside. It lived within her chest, sparking up and along her body, a rush of energy and anticipation. It wasn’t the magic – it was a short lived thrill of facing the unknown and Crowe tried her best to push it out of her mind – dragoon or no, ex commodore of the Imperial army or no, she would let no distraction be her downfall. No matter how sly, no matter how gorgeous. It was all Crowe could do to look past the gleam of Aranea’s eyes and the well fit curves of her workout gear, borrowed from the ‘glaives lockers.

“Disappoint,” Crowe said, her voice as dry as the Leiden wastelands. “You didn’t have anything to complain about when I got done saving your ass from the daemons.”

“Saving my ass?” Aranea’s brows rose sharply. Her teeth were very white and her canines resembles fangs like no other. “Is that what you thought you were doing when you were stumbling about in my way?”

All her life Crowe had never been much good at swallowing down spite. Growing up with teasing brothers and spending her teens amongst seasoned soldiers had sharpened her wicked tongue. There was no room for politeness. Only swinging fists and bawdy jokes, scrabbling hands and spilt drinks. Outrage was solved with stress relief, of any sort. “Looked that way, when you were storming ahead and trying to show off.”

“Who was I showing off for?”

Crowe’s jaw snapped shut. It was hard enough for sharp pain to lace through her and she adverted her eyes, abruptly embarrassed.

Aranea was a showoff – a flirt who didn’t follow through with her words, a woman interested only in dazzling glory. No matter what she did in the end she bore allegiance to only herself. That was the dragoon way, one of the older ‘glaives had said with a swig of her drink. She had met many and all were the same. But they were said to be self-serving in every way, flighty when it came to their masters – fighters with no lord, and Aranea had finally picked a side.

Maybe picking that side had come too late. Maybe it was just the right time. But Crowe knew what she had seen, the power held within and the ego written through her, and she knew she wanted it as much as it aggravated her.

It was just the two of them now. All alone in one of the Citadel’s finest rooms and it was harder not to grab Aranea by her shirt and kiss her stupid when the Oracle, mouthpiece of the gods herself wasn’t crammed between them on a borrowed truck, trying innocently to make small talk with her new companions.

“Her Majesty,” Crowe mustered eventually and Aranea only scoffed at her.

“Whatever makes you feel better,” she said and swept down to pluck her staff from the floor. Each of the walls were lined with them, a variety of weapons carved from finest myrlwood oak. Crowe could not see the point in the expense - they shattered all the same when things grew tense in battle.

Aranea balanced it perfectly in her palms, expression just shy of smug before she spun it, staff becoming merely a blur as she arced it overhead, twirling behind her back with little effort. She performed long enough for Crowe to become flustered watching the muscles bunch in her biceps. “You ready, or what?”

Swallowing down the hot touch of shame and wave of awe at the sight, Crowe steeled herself. She grabbed her own and tested its weight in her hands. It wasn’t unfamiliar to her – staves may have been a rarity in her practise sessions, but the Marshal had made sure she had a passing knowledge of all weapons, how to strike and how to counter. She had to dig down very deep to find the memory of her brief lessons.

It wouldn’t be right to fall here. Not to her.

“Ready,” she grit when she was sure her feet were planted firmly to the floor and her head was free of lust. Rather, as free as it could be.

Aranea’s first strike was merely a formality – like a lover brushing against her, pointed but slow. Crowe had seen her move in a flash, damn near as fast as Nyx’s warping. It was all Crowe could do to stay rooted in her present. Aranea was testing her boundaries, she knew. The woman was light on her feet and as fast as all the legends told, spry despite her stockier build.

It was easy to forget in the face of it all what Crowe had been taught. Every instructor advised her on her strengths – her agility, her focus, her gift for the arcane. The marshal praised her quick feet and Libertus often cursed her quicker tongue. But Aranea was like nothing she had ever seen.

Still, Crowe could not be cowed. She would not be. Springing forward to meet her halfway she cast her doubts aside. Their weapons clashed hard and her eyes met Aranea’s for a spellbinding moment, hers a blazing green. Those precious few seconds seemed to freeze in time. Then Aranea spun away, her hair flashing under the bold overhead lights. Only a heartbeat later she lashed out again faster, quick and nimble. Crowe brought her hands up hurriedly to block and felt the strike within her bones, and then abruptly sorry for all the daemons they had slain together.

All of Crowe’s confidence stagnated. The fire of determination still burned within – to show what she was capable of, to show Aranea she was far more than just magical talent and a great ass – and she fed that greedy flame, imagining the dragoon knocked on her ass and sweating hard. The determination to best her could not be sated with anything less. She would beat Aranea even in the efforts ground herself to dust.

But this was different. Rarely was Crowe permitted to train with her fellow ‘glaives, those that were more _traditional,_ in Cor’s vague words. Crowe’s personal tutors, magic casters from all over the land who had come to witness the Citadel’s talents first-hand, had all been assigned to Crowe to keep her bound with her fellow students. They all focused on working behind the front line as support only, largely out of reach from any enemy blade. They each focused on every aspect of magic instead. Crowe had spent her days practising her flame, her lightning, not yet well versed in anything more complex than sword or duelling hand to hand – let alone bearing the experienced and legendary wrath of a woman like Aranea.

It was difficult to keep up. Aranea twirled with the grace Crowe had seen throughout their journey, circling fast and chasing Crowe down, backing her up to the edges of the mat. Crowe met each attempt to push valiantly, glowering with the intensity of battle, her bare feet sticking to the plastic mat. Nyx was famously fast even without warping but Aranea was far quicker – Crowe could not dismiss the feeling that even with all that talk Aranea had been deeply underestimated.

Breathing harshly, she kept to her routine as well as she could. Unpredictability kept Crowe on her toes, ready within a moment to duck and weave. Her focus was on keeping her calm. It would be impossible to predict the next move if she was flustered, impossible as she recalled the way Aranea had fought as they made their way through Leide. Even so it was easy to become lost in those memories – particularly the cold mornings at havens when Aranea slipped from their makeshift tent, stretching and breathing steadily, or the mornings when Aranea slipped from the caravan shower, always the last to wash and wrapped carelessly in the small towels provided.

Crowe stood firm to accept another blow. Crowe stood firm to accept another blow. How it hadn't destroyed her weapon was beyond her - Aranea hit like a beserked behemoth, throwing about her weight with ease. Crowe knew she couldn't stay on the defensive for too long. It would render her exhausted, sore muscles and trembling legs.

Thankfully Aranea took a twisted form of mercy. She darted away, leaving a few feet between them and kept her weapon at her side, twirling in her hands like it was easy. She had never been far from her trusty lance, even when they huddled down for their rest.

"You're tough," Aranea said with a wry smile, disregarding any of Crowe’s strained concentration. It jerked Crowe out of her reverie **,** the pleasant memories of smelling the sweet scent of Aranea's hair on her pillow, tangled with summer. "I can see why you were picked to travel with Luna."

Crowe took comfort that even Aranea’s mouth was parted, breathing steadily. She could feel a similar burn in her own lungs, a slow and for now pleasant ache. "Thanks," she said plainly, too concerned about letting her feelings slip if she said any more.

Aranea's quirked her head to the side. Her eyes were curious. "Not the chatty type? Thought you were just shaking in your boots when you ignored me out on the field, but no spare words for a comrade?"

A harsh breath flared from Crowe's nostrils. A bead of sweat was sticky at her temple and the room seemed so much warmer than it had before. Crowe could only be grateful that they had no audience. "I'll chat away once I've kicked your ass," she shot back, and Aranea laughed.

It left Crowe's concentration in shreds. Her laugh was rough and scratchy, but still pleasant - genuine in a way Crowe thought the Empire's woman would never be. Crowe had dealt with serval prisoners of war, each of them arrogant even in defeat and lips curled when faced with _Lucian dogs_. Aranea was like none of them. Wry and sarcastic but capable of kindness – the wisdom of abandoning a losing side turned manic in the throes of death. The charm of favouring the Oracle, protecting innocent lives, and thanking the King for his warm welcome and capability for forgiveness even at the end of a long, vicious war.

"Let's get to it, then," she rumbled, and threw herself back into the ring.

Aranea's strikes were her parries. Crowe had no time to take advantage of the gaps she left open now and again, baring her sides with each thrust of her staff. Crowe had no time to even catch her breath. Her assault was never ending, never once faltering and long legs springing into brief jumps, using the force of her blows to spring away again. Aranea was a natural athlete, muscles in her bare biceps taut, her strong legs flexing. Crowe could only hope she would be exhausted soon - her passivity was long lived, she hoped, far longer lived than the blows of any predator. Crowe would strike then - and win.

Her loose strands of hair were sticking to her face. A sheen of sweat made her shirt cling. Crowe was sticky and uncomfortable, and her muscles burnt, lungs struggling. The magic thrilled her blood - singing, eager to burn. It took all of Crowe's carefully schooled patience to keep it locked away. In a real fight Crowe would let flame spring to life in her hands or throw her enemy away with a blast of wind. A part her was tempted - hungry to see Aranea on her back and flustered - and it waned her strength, waned her determination to win.

Thankfully Aranea was in a similar state. A faint flush made her cheeks glow and the sweat made her skin shimmer. She was gorgeous in a way Crowe couldn't ignore - even in their first meeting Crowe had been tongue tied, unable to take her eyes off the armour and the way it moulded to the commodore, shapely and dangerous. That was even before Aranea had removed her helm to reveal sharp features, plump lips, and Crowe had cursed herself knowing they faced a multiple week journey together across land and sea. Crowe was never good at concealing her feelings – it was only a boon when it came to her magic. Impatience made the fire hotter, made the lightning sharper.

But Aranea must have known what she felt. Her eyes were too sharp, instincts too well honed. That curl of her lips made it obvious and Crowe had hardly spoken a word to her, praying it would blow over.

Merciless, Aranea never let it pass. “What’s the matter,” she had said countless times. “Cat got your tongue,” and Crowe had plainly ignored her, jabbing at the makeshift meal she had helped pulled together and instead listen to the Oracle, speaking softly but surely as she tried to gloss over the obvious tension.

Those bright eyes seemed always on her. Whenever Crowe glanced over, she found Aranea watching closely, and the woman was never shy about it. It was never her who broke their gaze and Crowe could feel the burn on the back of her shoulders minutes after she looked away on busied her anxious hands. Aranea passed her the ketchup at meals and made sure their warm fingers brushed a touch too long – and yet not long enough. She brought up the front while Crowe held the back, sending daemons screeching in fear with a touch of her fire, shielding their pitch-black eyes from the light.

A hand would squeeze her shoulder, perhaps harder than she should, but softer than Crowe wanted. Aranea’s chest would heave but her smile would remain wicked, the pride unsmeared. “Nice one,” she would say, and later Crowe would slink underneath the freezing spray of a shower and try very hard to remember all her training, focusing on forming intricate ice patterns on the shower glass.

She had to keep up the distant charade, hard as it was. Crowe forced the thoughts away and had to fend Aranea off. It was easy to lose herself in the past and the worries of the future – but things were easier now. They had the Oracle and the wedding was a matter of weeks away. It was Crowe’s biggest job done. She would be given her honours personally from the king and Aranea – would go somewhere.

Gods, what if she joined up with the guards? Crowe would have to see her every day. They would be more than happy to have a woman of her talents.

The dawning worry had no time to be truly felt. Their battle was no longer a formality as Aranea focused, realising Crowe would not be easily cowed. She changed her approach and threw everything she had at her opponent, strength to match her speed. Determined Crowe began to throw back, dodging most blows and giving her own, forcing Aranea to toe her own line.

They danced around the mat. Teasing, damn near flirtatious they panted hard but stood unshaken. They paced circles. Crowe would bend and stretch but never snap. A bead of sweat slipped down Aranea’s forehead, along the length of her nose. It looked like it had been broken before. Crowe was just as sweaty – disgustingly so. She longed for a good hot shower, something that had been in short supply on the road and her brain frazzled at the thought of Aranea joining her.

Her glowing skin gleamed. Cheeks pinked she looked nowhere near winded, only taxed and pleased. Those silver brows furrowed, and her muscles tensed and bulged, thick underneath her pale skin. Crowe could see everything – her plotting eyes, the dawning pleasure –

And Crowe realised the threat.

She sprang away but it only made the moment worse. It broke her impenetrable stance and Aranea seized her moment. Crowe lifted her arms to call for peace – not a surrender, never a surrender – and Aranea merely tossed her staff to one side. It bounced from the mat and clattered to the tile. Instead she bunched down and charged, wrapping her arms around Crowe’s waist on contact and shoving her to the floor.

Crowe yelled in protest. All she could do was make the landing as easy as possible for them both. There was a blow to her gut and then the turning of her world, and her back slammed against the mat. A hard breath left her. She grunted and Aranea was hunched over her, somehow still poised.

“What the fuck,” she burst, baring her teeth in a snarl – and met Aranea’s eyes.

They were framed with thick, dark lashes. A glimmer of brown surrounded her irises, the rest overwhelmed with bursting green. There were flaws to her skin and creases in her dry lips. She smelt of deodorant – nothing fancy, purely practical – and Crowe’s nostrils were full of her.

Crowe had first row seats to that insufferable grin. Aranea bore her teeth and sat up, propping herself up to hover over Crowe, hair falling loose. “Looks like I win,” she said, with a soft edge that filled Crowe’s gut with trepidation. “Anyone ever told you you’re too easily distracted?”

A thousand times, from friends and foes and commanders. Crowe swore to herself.

Breathing was harder than it had been before. No inhale was enough to sate her. Crowe was caught between two minds – shoving her off and storming for the showers, infuriated by Aranea’s constant games. Or to lie in wait, let herself be the prey for once and see how the games unfolded.

“Right,” she said with forced lightness. Her own breath ruffled Aranea’ hair. The two were close enough to feel each other’s breaths.

A resounding silence filled the room. Aranea’s eyes did not move nor lighten. A bead of sweat stung Crowe’s and they lay there for a short eternity, until a pink tongue wet Aranea’s lips.

It was enough. All of it was finally enough. _Fuck it,_ Crowe thought, bored of passivity and used a sparking urge of adrenaline fuelled strength to arch up, their bodies meeting in a sudden collision, and taking advantage of Aranea’s fascination to flip her over.

Aranea’s head hit the cushioned mat hard and some vague sense of disbelief crossed her face. It wasn’t surprise, and it didn’t pass to become frustration. It lingered long enough for Crowe took full advantage, ducking down to steal a kiss.

There was only so much a woman could stand. Games were only fun when played on equal footing and if Crowe had to tug her down to her level so be it. Her conciliatory prize was sweet. Aranea’s lips were as dry as they looked but she tasted pleasant – like fruit, probably eaten for breakfast. Every part of her was warm and there wasn’t a second’s hesitance before that mouth opened for her, laughter muffled against her lips.

Her heart sprung within its confines. Limbs jittery and brain working overtime she wasn’t sure exactly what she was doing, only why. Weeks she had spent resisting fell to nothing. But it was worth it, for Aranea’s hips framed by her thighs and the warmth of her skin.

“Guess I wasn’t the winner after all,” Aranea drawled when Crowe drew away, after catching her breath. Oxygen was a pressing need that burnt her lungs, as dull as breathing could be against kidding her hard. “Can’t even complain about the use of underhand tactics when I started first, I guess.”

“Shut up,” Crowe said but Aranea’s smile seemed to never die. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Only when my mouth is busy,” she said and Crowe’s own ran dry.

There were no witty comebacks – Nyx would be delighted and astounded – so Crowe kissed her again, nipping at her lower lip hard enough to get the message across. _Shut up._

Aranea’s lips parted again, their mouths slotting together, and Crowe let herself sink into a pleasant warmth. It had been too long, weeks of frustration and not even her own hand. She slid down so they were chest to chest, their hips close and Aranea was sticky and gross with exertion. Crowe didn’t care. There was still the sweetness of summer in her hair. Crowe was lost in sensation.

When Aranea parted her legs, Crowe took the hint. Without pulling away she settled in-between.

Aranea was tall and shapely, built like an athlete and each part of her was firm. Crowe slipped her hands alongside Aranea’s tight stomach and the thickness of her thighs, wanting to touch and kiss every part at once. It might have been much too soon, a foolhardy flight of fancy – but it had been _weeks_ and Aranea made no complaint. Her own hands were eager – grasping Crowe’s shoulders, gripping her biceps and her own tongue graced Crowe’s.

She had always been an impatient woman. There was no time to waste, already having spent too much of it dallying. And Aranea seemed of the same mind - Crowe peeled at the edges of her leggings and Aranea lifted her hips in response, shimmying to worm out of them as quickly as possible. Thoughtlessly Crowe peeled them over her strong calves and tugged them over her ankles. They were thrown thoughtlessly to one side.

There was a voluptuous curve to her exposed hips. Aranea’s underwear was skin-tight and a dull beige, the practical kind where the creases wouldn’t be clear underneath her gym wear. It didn’t matter that Crowe’s playful fantasies weren’t quite accurate – it was thrilling nonetheless, even more so when she rubbed her fingers between Aranea’s legs and found the fabric damp.

Bubbling laughter escaped her companion’s throat. Still that smile remained. A pink tinge was high on her aristocratic cheeks and Crowe wanted to see that skin flushed red. “Quit laughing at me,” Crowe shot with no heat and her thumb smoothed and teased through the fabric. All the while she took in the sight – legs splayed, tiny little scars and long jagged ones all along her skin. The rest was pale and soft, and Crowe wondered about the stories that came alongside the marks. No doubt Aranea was full of adventures. It would be good to hear them over a beer –

If, of course, Aranea was looking for anything more than a few moments of pleasure.

Crowe smoothed one hand over a strong thigh. Aranea responded with a small exhale, barely loud enough to hear. She traced patterns with her callous fingers and the fine hairs along her thighs stood on end, a shiver making her abdomen tense. It could have been a dream. It happened so strangely, so beyond rational thought. But Aranea’s core was hot and Crowe wouldn’t waste the chance.

She slipped her fingers underneath. Aranea’s hair was coarse and her skin was petal soft, soaked through with barely even a touch. Crowe’s fingers pretended they were sure, and she rubbed carefully, avoiding her clit for now. Those legs splayed, her chest sinking with her breaths and Aranea rest her own hands on her belly. Clever hands slid over, delving down low.

“Come on,” she coaxed, all playfulness in her voice cast aside. There was only a seriousness that Crowe had not heard from her before. “You shy?”

Certainly not. Never had Crowe been described as shy – only foolhardy, stubborn as a wild garula, utterly untameable. Some part of pride prickled along her spine and Crowe grunted. “Like hell,” she said, and her thumb arced up to meet her clit, a careful but pointed pressure.

Aranea sighed softly, tilting her head. Her eyes had drifted shut and her lips parted, breathing softly. “Mm,” she said and craned her hips. “Good.”

It had been too long. Crowe didn’t like to keep her own company at night but there were so few that gave her that thrill – rowdy guys at the bars were falling all over themselves, for her attention and too buzzed with booze and it was rare to find a woman who caught Crowe’s gaze that wanted her attentions – at least, any who she didn’t work with. Crowe wasn’t desperate enough to mix business with pleasure – until now. Crowe pitied herself for falling but had fallen headfirst into desire.

Before she had only ever heard of dragoons. Never had she thought of meeting one, let alone have her hand slipped inside the panties of Niflheim’s most fearsome warrior.

It was winning, in its own way. They both knew full well it was more of a draw, but with Aranea settled below her allowing herself to be touched so intimately, Crowe considered it her own victory.

The dampness soaked her fingertips. Small motions fuelled Aranea’s hips, rocking against Aranea’s hand. It was so subtle Crowe thought she may have dreamed it. But her thumb pressed against her clit while her fingers slipped down, testing her readiness and Aranea moved against her – and she grabbed Crowe’s wrist, tight enough to bruise.

“Don’t play around,” she commanded, a commanding officer’s edge to her voice and Crowe was helpless to obey.

One finger sank inside. Aranea was quiet but Crowe could see everything from on her. At the corner of her mouth there was a line of tension. Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips pursed, pink and sweet and Crowe longed to kiss her again. But she exhaled long and low and Crowe drank in the subtle noises, eager to wring out cries. Crowe was an impatient lover. She could feel the thrum in her own blood. The desire to be touched was a powerful feeling, but the urge to see Aranea overwhelmed trumped all else.

She was soaked through and hot inside, delightful in every way. Crowe slipped another within when Aranea’s expression was written with impatience and she thrust teasingly. Slow, dragging – just the way she knew Aranea didn’t want it, here on the training room floor. When she cast her mind back she could not recall locking the door. It was never meant to be locked, every hour a busy one in the afternoon. Anyone could walk in. Any cleaning staff, any soldier. Hell, the King himself could wander in, or the Oracle looking for her guides. They would find the two of them wound together, Aranea half-naked and carelessly pinned.

The base of Crowe’s long fingers met the crease of Aranea’s skin. When she withdrew her fingers glistened and Aranea’s thighs flexed hard, pushing back to take them inside again. Her hand on Crowe’s wrist pushed them back impatiently. “Come on,” she insisted and smoothed her hand back up her belly and all the way across her ribs, impatiently slipping under her shirt to smooth over her own ample chest.

Aranea was built in every way. Her shoulders were broad and her breasts generous, every curve and firm line exactly what Crowe liked to see most in her lovers. It was a disappointment to have such a form hidden away. So Crowe gripped her hips, squeezed and said, “Show me.”

Somehow her lover understood perfectly. Without pause Aranea pushed up her tank top and Crowe took in the long stretch of muscle and scarred skin, the plain black sports bra cupping the curves of her breasts. It seemed to barely contain the weight and Aranea indulged for a moment, stroking over herself. Then she reached back and there was an awkward moment of concentration, the dazed, pleasured look in Aranea’s eyes sharpening to a point – then her body sagged again, the bra loosening and her own hands delved underneath to squeeze handfuls of her own breasts, a flash of pink between her scarred fingers. The fabric went forgotten, bunched uselessly.

Aranea was a picture. Sprawled out, thumb pinching her nipples and swollen lips parted, writhing on Crowe’s fingers. A heat had arced up within Crowe’s core, the hottest between her legs and within her chest. There were a dozen places her mouth could have been. It longed most to be upon her breasts and against her stomach, between her legs and leaving purple marks against her thighs.

It was dizzying to choose. Cloying pleasure and the thrill of choice muddied her mind and she sunk down without thinking, pushing away Aranea’s hands. They budged and Crowe took their place hungrily, searing kisses against the swell and curve, mouthing at the hardness of her nipple. Distantly Crowe caught a gasp, a heaving breath dragging on and Crowe kept the pace of her fingers. Stroking firmly, she dreamed of Aranea’s retribution, a wicked tongue between her own legs, and the drive and exhilaration had Crowe relentless.

“Oh,” Aranea said, “oh,” and the wit was long gone. She was languid, wanting. Her hand slid down to join Crowe’s, finding her own clit and stroking, as rough as she liked best and Crowe focused in meeting her halfway, delving inside and leaving bruises across her heaving chest. They were a mess – Crowe was hotter than the flame she could bring to life, her hair wet through with sweat and falling loose from her makeshift bun.

And anyone might see them. The thought alone was electrifying, bringing laughter and a terse anxiety to her tight chest. Even her breathing was a wild panting, hot against Aranea’s skin. Still she fucked Aranea through, remembering each cold shower and each spray of daemon ichor.

Fuck anyone else. Fuck propriety. Aranea was hers.

“You gonna come for me,” Crowe asked, with a wry grin and a wicked laugh to rival Aranea’s. The hunger to have her mouth between Aranea’s legs was growing. So was Aranea’s desperation, the clumsiness of her fingers stroking. “You gonna come right here on the training room floor?”

Deep inside Aranea’s walls flexed. Her toes curled. A moan escaped her and her own fingers moved faster, the wetness now across her thighs. “Fuck off,” she said, lost in delight, and those eyes were scalding hot. Crowe could resist temptation no longer.

It was easy to control the magic. The power flowed through her veins, a source she couldn’t understand but had the uncanny ability to mould, stretch, kill at a moment’s notice. The elemental magic began in the pounding of her heart and spread to her shoulder, down her bicep, thrumming through her wrist – and it was clear that Aranea felt it, the throbbing warmth of the magic drawn deep inside her, like sinking into a hot bath when your muscles were strained and sore.

Aranea’s hips and hand lost her rhythm. She stumbled in her frenzy, hips stuttering – and she came with a yell that came from her core, each muscle clenching and loosening rhythmically. Her body arched, rubbing against Crowe’s and seizing, and Crowe refused to let her go even as she choked, trembling through the long aftershocks. Hooking her fingers, she pushed the dragoon as far as she could go for as long as she could, banking on the grip of her body – until Aranea grunted hard, forcing Crowe’s hand out of her body, and the mess was beyond belief.

Panting and the rush of blood filled the room. Crowe’s hand was uncomfortably warm and she willed the magic to lose its pride, to sink back into temporary oblivion. Aranea’s come glistened and Crowe drew her fingers into her mouth, cleaning them off with efficiency, and the taste only made her wish she really had fucked Aranea with her tongue instead.

Perhaps, if she were lucky, she would still be gifted the chance.

Aranea lay flushed and dishevelled. It turned out the pinkness of her cheeks travelled all the way down, breasts just as flushed and covered in bites and bruises. Her underwear was soaked, thighs gleaming, and Crowe wondered if she realised how her legs still trembled. Maybe it had been as long for her as it had for Crowe.

Her own arousal had not ebbed. Looking down at Aranea it only built and without another care she slipped her hand between her belly and her leggings, finding herself hot to the touch and begging for relief. Contact after so long of being denied was blissful and she curled her fingers against her flesh, sighing with pleasure, and Aranea’s half lidded, still dazed eyes locked onto where her hand disappeared.

Crowe paid her no mind. Her eyes drifted closed, almost entirely forgetting about her surroundings. But she couldn’t help but play just a little longer – she crooked her own fingers into herself, sitting up on her knees, and sighed at her own sensitivity. It was good, better than she could have dreamed, and a fantasy of strong hands prying her thighs apart and devouring her made the pretence all the better.

“Hey,” Aranea said sharply, and Crowe opened her eyes. They were already sluggish. But Aranea was incredulous, brimming with disbelief.

“Mm?”

Those silver brows furrowed. She looked petulant; a woman denied something she wanted even while basking in the wake of an orgasm, legs spread and breasts bare. Clearly, Aranea wasn’t used to not getting what she wanted. “Get up here,” she commanded, and Crowe ran a hand through her mussed, sweat damp hair. She stroked herself very softly and flashed her a smile.

“Or what,” she said, and reached to cup her own breast.

It was only the late afternoon. Still the world carried on around them, anyone at risk of stumbling inside and Crowe at risk of running late for her evening guard duties. No time for games, no time to ride Aranea’s mouth languidly the way she wanted – but -

 _Fuck it_ , she thought, just before Aranea grew bored of waiting and pounced.


End file.
